


the price of perfection

by cyndakip



Series: the price of perfection [1]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canada Moist Talkers (Blaseball Team), Gen, Incineration, The Blaseball Gods, feedback, not exactly major character death but mentions of death in the background, now contains peanuts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyndakip/pseuds/cyndakip
Summary: They see the world from all angles now, as if watching from a thousand windows at once into directions hidden from everyday eyes. Alone in a distant corner of the universe is the once-large window leading to their teammates, the glass now cracked and smudged and never cleaned because it’s easier to look away than to wake up one morning and find the view has changed yet again.(PolkaDot Patterson pitches, and pitches, and pitches.)
Series: the price of perfection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969006
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26
Collections: Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Help, Blaseball has taken over my life. PolkaDot Patterson has always been my favourite, so I really wanted to try and explore their character, going along with the idea that their Blessing transformed them into an incredibly powerful eldrich being who can't really connect with their teammates anymore due to being on a higher level of existence. And the constant threat of being stolen. And the team being hit hard by weather... Seriously, I was going to post this yesterday but then I needed to make last-minute adjustments to factor in ALL THE DEATH. Would you believe the first mentions of incineration in this fic refer to a simpler time when the Talkers had only ever lost three players, many seasons ago? Those were the days...

_One. Two. Three._

The familiar rhythm of the blaseballs hitting the catcher's mitt echoes in their ears, louder than the cheering of the crowd, louder than the shrieking of the birds, louder than the announcer declaring _PolkaDot Patterson has done it again!_

Of course they have. This is all they’re here to do; pitch the strikes, fade into the background while the rest of the team takes their turn, pitch the strikes again. One, two, three. Easier than breathing. 

Dot can almost remember a far-off time when it _wasn't_ , a time when they were someone else who was young and eager, fighting for each pitch to turn out right, practicing and improving bit by bit until the Underleagues were behind them and the crowds in bigger stadiums started to take notice.

The only vivid memory remaining is of the day the gods took notice of them too, the day the forbidden book opened and they were fortunate enough to come out of it not just alive but _reborn_ , the day every atom in their body was set alight with the surging power of stars until the eagerness and the fight were burned away and replaced with divine power, their world expanding and narrowing and reshaping itself into the answer to every question they had never thought to ask.

Everything has become instinctive. Knowing the perfect spot to aim for, knowing where to position all their new fingers, knowing how to stare down a batter until their hands shake too much to swing. A power that any team would stop at nothing to steal.

They see the world from all angles now, as if watching from a thousand windows at once into directions hidden from everyday eyes. Alone in a distant corner of the universe is the once-large window leading to their teammates, the glass now cracked and smudged and never cleaned because it’s easier to look away than to wake up one morning and find the view has changed yet again.

The memories of Mints fade. The memories of Crabs fade. The memories of Moist Talkers will fade. _Close the window. Don’t get attached. You’ll be leaving again._

But the gods have plenty of fire left, and this time, their teammates start leaving first.

_One. Two. Three._

Players extinguished like candles, leaving nothing but smoke on the wind. Dot watches their souls drift away and wonders if the wrath of the gods feels any different than their favour, wonders if incineration is an end or just a new beginning of a life on a higher level than even Dot can comprehend, wonders if the always-burning brilliance in their own veins will one day consume them from the inside out regardless of whether an umpire ever turns that gaze their way.

What is there to say, to feel, when they barely met these players, never knew them as more than faces in a field, only observed them from behind faraway glass? Friendship is just one more faded memory from the life of a PolkaDot Patterson who was not yet worshipped and whispered about and tiptoed around, who could not yet hear the voices of the gods and flex fingers unseen to anyone else, who could still remember how it felt to be human and fear death. 

_Don’t waste your time on those who were always beneath you,_ the gods say. _You are perfect. You are chosen. You are ours._

_Their lives were not a waste of time,_ Dot thinks -- when they can, when they can push the whispers out of their mind for just a moment and _think_ \-- _and this is not how it should be, they shouldn't be gone, I shouldn't be what I am._

_This is what you were always meant to be_ , the gods say. _You are perfect. You are chosen. You are ours._

_One. Two. Three._

Dot stops thinking. There are games to pitch, always games, and that ever-elusive championship to strive for. The Moist Talkers are their team now, have been their team for longer than anyone expected, and Gleek Arena has started to feel... well, not like _home_ , never home, but familiar. Comfortable. A good place to be, for as long as they can be there. Dot’s teammates are used to them and don't mind too much that they're always distant; Richmond warbles happily every time they show up, Ziwa shares all their new songs with them, Morse always brings them coffee just the way they like it. Dot watches it all from a dimension away and thanks them. If it can’t be friendship, it's at least a content coexistence. Dot wins games for their teammates, who are grateful, who try their best, who have fun.

Blaseball used to be fun, once, they half-remember, back before it became everything. Dot wonders sometimes if it wouldn't be preferable to be a pitcher like Morse, who follows no rhythm but his own unpredictability, who always tries his best although it frequently turns out to not be good enough, who can pitch an exciting game and get hugged by his teammates regardless of the outcome.

But the gods draw their eyes away from that window to show them the whole universe, and whisper _Do not think of that. Your life is so much more. You can achieve things none of them could ever imagine. You are perfect. You are chosen. You are ours._

_I am_ **_theirs_ ** _,_ Dot dares to think sometimes, watching their team.

The gods’ curses manifest in many ways.

_One. Two. Three._

Richmond is first, swept into the feedback while Dot, while _everyone_ , can only stand back and watch, while Hobbs screams defiance and anguish at the sky. There's no time for the team to adjust before Lachlan is gone too, and Dot is left knowing that it will not end there, that a third must follow, sooner or later.

Hands shaking, Hobbs clutches another book that should never have been opened, stepping forward onto the path of someone who has nothing left to lose, every bolt of lightning in the sky reflected in his eyes. “I'm going to find him,” he growls as the feedback splits the air. As if this is all his own plan. As if it won't end up becoming so much more. As if there's ever been a choice. 

_One. Two. Three._

The games go by. Hotdogfingers returns. Townsend disappears. 

A debt must be paid.

_One. Two. Three._

The sky darkens in the middle of the day. Predicted. Dreaded. And yet different, somehow. 

_One. Two. Three._

Cookbook. Scorpler. **Bates**. They burn up like so many before them. The beginning of a payment. The end of so much more. 

_One. Two. Three._

Bates. Kiki. Tony. Three teammates gone, old faces, new faces, too many faces faded away. The team is changing around Dot, growing more unfamiliar by the day, but it doesn't matter, it doesn’t, it _doesn't_. They turn towards all the other windows because they're here to play blaseball no matter who else is on the field, no matter what team they’re on, no matter how much the gods take and take and take. 

_It doesn't matter. You are perfect. You are PolkaDot Patterson. They mean nothing to you. You are here to play blaseball. Nothing more._

_No,_ Dot responds, sometimes. _I am here for them. I am a Moist Talker. And I miss my friends._

The gods don't care what words they say. They cannot defeat a god with words. With _anything_. They can only watch, and endure, and throw a blaseball.

_One. Two. Three._

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm... actually pretty happy with how this turned out? Especially because I'm not used to writing short standalone things, or having to make last-minute changes due to Blaseball being Blaseball. I hope the ending doesn't feel too rushed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was supposed to be just a one-chapter fic but then the shelling happened and I couldn't resist writing another one. I then proceeded to get distracted by my 3 other blaseball fic ideas... but I finally finished this, and here it is!

...Quiet.

It's quiet.

When was the last time it was quiet?

Dot opens their eyes. It makes no difference; there’s nothing to see but darkness. They reach out, but every finger is immediately stopped short by a sturdy barrier. 

They trace the outline of their prison. A shell. They remember now, remember the flickering line on the leaderboard, remember the moment when the voice of the peanut drowned out everything else. They always knew they'd end up here, if the umpires didn't get them first. Who wouldn't want to idolize PolkaDot Patterson?

_ You always said I was chosen. Chosen for what? To be the best at your game until you decide it might be more fun without me after all?  _

The gods do not answer.

The gods are not here.

Who are they, without the gods?

Dot forms all of their hands into fists and pounds at the inside of the shell, over and over and over, waiting to break through. Waiting for it to hurt. 

The shell does not give way. Their fingers do not feel anything. 

If breaking through was so simple, Jessica could have freed herself. Nagomi wouldn't still be in one of these too. All the pitching power in the world won’t get Dot out of here if it’s where the gods want them to be. 

_ You’ll get bored of this eventually. You’ll send birds to set me free _ . _ I can wait.  _

The gods, again, are not here to respond.

Shouldn't Dot feel angry that the universe has slipped out of their grasp? Afraid? Incomplete?

They feel nothing. Everything. Things they had forgotten could be felt, the long-hidden parts of their mind resurfacing, their focus shifting as the rhythm fades away. 

They feel… human, almost.

And tired. 

So tired.

...

It’s quiet.

It’s almost a welcome change, this quiet. They’d forgotten how it felt to be alone in their own mind, to think so many thoughts that are uncertain and unfocused but truly  _ theirs _ . 

Is it worth losing that again? They could just… stay here. Forever. No gods. No blaseball. Just the soft blanket of quiet enfolding them, leading them into a welcome sleep.

No. 

Not forever. What is their team going to do? They’ve lost far too many players this season. It wouldn’t be right to stay any longer than they have to.

They don’t have a choice in the matter, anyway.

Will anyone miss them? Not PolkaDot Patterson the unstoppable pitcher who the team relies on to win games, but  _ Dot _ , who always hovered alone in the corner, silent and unapproachable, looking beyond everyone else into the hidden corners of the world.

Better them than someone else, someone who would be remembered and missed for more than just pitching strikeouts. Better to let the windows close entirely, let the blinds be drawn and the light fade.

Could they sleep, now? Truly rest?

Even for just a little while. 

Maybe a long while. 

Not forever, though. Never forever.

Time passes strangely here. Perhaps it doesn't pass at all. They don't know. 

They're supposed to know these things. They used to.

Don't think about it.

Don't think about anything, for once. 

Just rest. 

Just… 

...

It's quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably write a third chapter when Dot gets unshelled so stay tuned for that I guess


End file.
